Of  this  first  American  edition  of  Gipsy-Night 
and  Other  Poems,  with  a  special  proof  of  the  Litho- 
graph Portrait  by  Pamela  Bianco,  sixty-three  copies, 
each  signed  by  both  author  and  artist,  have  been 
issued,  of  which  thirty  are  for  sale  in  America  and 
twenty-four  in  England. 


Number 


Gipsy-Night  and  Other  Poems 


GIPSY-NIGHT 
and  Other  Poems 

by 

Richard  Hughes 


Chicago 

WILL  RANSOM 
1922 


Copyright  1922  ty  Will 


Some  of  these  pieces  have  appeared  in  England 
in  The  Athentum,  London  Mercury,  SpeSator,  Satur- 
day WeSlminSler  Gazette,  Oxford  Review,  Free  Oxford, 
Oxford  Outlook,  Poetry  Review,  and  Oxford  Poetry;  and 
in  America  in  The  Dial,  the  New  York  Evening  PoS 
Literary  Review,  The  Bookman,  and  Poetry. 
The  Author  offers  the  usual 
acknowledgments. 


CONTENTS 

Portrait  of  the  Author  by 

Pamela  Bianco 

Prefa*  7 

Gipsy-Night  9 

The  Horse  Trough  11 

Martha  12 

Gratitude  15 

Vagrancy  17 

Storm  20 

Tramp  23 

Epitaph  26 

Glaucopis  27 

Poets,  Painters,  Puddings  28 

IsaacBall  30 

Dirge  32 

The  Singing  Furies  34 


The  Ruin         •  36 

Judy  38 

Winter  40 

The  Moon/it  Journey  41 

A  Song  of  (be  Walking  Road  42 

The  Sermon  44 

The  Rolling  Saint  4) 

Weald  48 

The  Jumping  Bean  50 

Old  Cat  Care  52 

Cottager  is  given  the  Bird  53 

A  Man  55 

Moon-Struck  56 

Enigma  58 

Lament  for  Gaza  59 

The  Image  60 

Felo  de  Se  61 

The  Birds-neSer  63 


Preface 

Probably  the  mofl  Important  contribution  to  modern 
poetical  theory  is  Mr.  Robert  Graves'  book  On  English 
Poetry.  He  grounds  it  upon  Man  as  a  Neurotic  Animal. 
Poetry  is  to  the  poet,  he  argues,  -what  dreams  are  to  the 
ordinary  man:  a  symbolical  -way,  that  is,  of  resolving 
those  complexes  -which  deadlock  of  emotion  hat  produced. 
If  this  book  meets  -with  the  success  it  deserves,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  there  will  be  a  great  deal  of  psycho-analytical 
criticism  afloat,  that  the  symbolic  tesJ  -will  become  the  sole 
criterion  of  distinguishing  the  true  from  the  fake  poem ; 
until  some  sort  of '  Metamorphic' school  arise,  who  defeat 
this  by  consciously  faking  their  symbolism.  I  do  not  wish 
to  oppose  this  thesis,  but  only  to  suggest  that  though  true, 
it  is  only  a  partial  truth:  and  that  to  make  it  the  sole 
criterion  of  poetry  would  be  damning:  that  as  well  as 
being  a  neurotic  animal,  Man  is  a  Communicative  Ani- 
mal, and  a  Pattern-making  Animal:  that  poetry  cannot 
be  traced  simply  to  a  sort  of  automatic  psycho-therapy, 
but  that  these  and  many  other  causes  are  co-responsible. 
Indeed,  though  many  of  these  poems  may  Still  prove  poems 
within  the  meaning  of  Mr.  Graves'  A8,  I  should  be 
sorry  that  they  should  be  read  with  no  other  purpose  than 
indecently  to  deteft  my  neuroses.  R.  H. 

North  Wales,  1922 


Gipsy-Night 

When  the  feet  of  the  rain  tread  a  dance  on  the 

roofs, 

And  the  wind  slides  through  the  rocks  and  the  trees, 
And  Dobbin  has  stabled  his  hoofs 
In  the  warm  bracken-litter,  noisy  about  his  knees; 
And  when  there  is  no  moon,  and  the  sodden 

clouds  slip  over; 
Whenever  there  is  no  moon,  and  the  rain  drips 

cold, 
And  folk  with  a  shilling  of  money  are  bedded 

in  houses, 
And  pools  of  water  glitter  on  Farmer's  mould ; 

Then  pity  Sally's  girls,  with  the  rain  in  their 

blouses : 

Martha  and  Johnnie,  who  have  no  money : 
The  small  naked  puppies  who  whimper 

against  the  bitches, 

The  small  sopping  children  who  creep  to  the 
ditches. 


But  when  the  moon  is  run  like  a  red  fox 

Cover  to  cover  behind  the  skies; 

And  the  breezes  crack  in  the  trees  on  the  rocks, 

Or  stoop  to  flutter  about  the  eyes 

Of  one  who  dreams  in  the  scent  of  pines 

At  ease: 

Then  would  you  not  go  foot  it  with 

Sarah's  Girls 
In  and  out  the  trees? 
Or  listen  across  the  fire 
To  old  Tinker-Johnnie,  and  Martha  his 

Rawnee, 

In  jagged  Wales,  or  in  orchard 
Worcestershire? 


10 


The  Horse  Trough 

Clouds  of  children  round  the  trough 
Splash  and  clatter  in  the  sun : 
Their  clouted  shoes  are  mostly  off, 
And  some  are  quarrelling,  and  one 
Cools  half  her  face,  nose  downward  bubbling, 
Wetting  her  clo'es  and  never  troubling; 
Bobble,  bobble,  bobble  there 
Till  bubbles  like  young  earthquakes  heave 
The  orange  island  of  her  hair, 
And  tidal  waves  run  up  her  sleeve; 
Another  's  tanned  as  brown  as  bistre; 
Another  ducks  his  little  sister, 
And  all  are  mixed  in  such  a  crowd 
And  tell  their  separate  joys  so  loud 
That  who  can  be  this  silent  one, 
This  dimpled,  pensive,  baby  one? 
—She  sits  the  sunny  steps  so  still 
For  hours,  trying  hard  to  kill 
One  fly  at  least  of  those  that  buzz 
So  cannily  .  .  . 

And  then  she  does. 


11 


Martha 
(Gipsies  on  TilberSowe:  1917) 

Small  child  with  the  pinched  face, 

Why  do  you  stare 

With  screwed-up  eyes  under  a  shock 

Of  dull  carrot  hair? 

— Child  in  the  long,  torn  frock, 

Crouched  in  the  warm  dust: 

Why  do  you  stare,  as  if 

Stare  you  must? 

Fairies  in  gossamer, 

Hero  and  warrior, 

Queens  in  their  cherry  gowns, 

Wizards  and  witches: 

Dream  you  of  such  as  these? 

Palaces?  Orange-trees? 

Dream  you  of  swords  and  crowns, 

Child  of  the  ditches? 

Still  in  the -warm  ttuS 
Sits  she  and  Baits;  as  if 
Stan  she  muff, 


12 


Pale  eyes  that  see  through: 
Soon  I  muff  flare  too: 

Soon  through  the  fierce  glare 
Loom  things  that  are  not  there: 
Out  of  the  blind  Past 
Savages  grim : 
Negroes  and  muleteers, 
Saxons  and  wanderers 
Tall  as  a  ship's  mast, 
Spectral  and  dim. 

Stirring  the  race's  a'uff, 
Starts  she  as  ffare  she  muff. 

Fade  they:  but  ffiff  the  glare 
Shimmers  her  copper  hair. 

Eight  years  of  penury, 
Whining  and  beggary, 
Famine  and  cursing, 
Hunger  and  sharp  theft: 
Death  comes  to  such  as  these 
Under  the  sobbing*trees : 
The  cold  stars  nursing 
Those  that  are  left. 


13 


Angel  and  devil  peers 
Through  those  pale  eyes  of  hen, 

Child  of  the  Wide  Earth, 
Born  at  the  World's  birth, 
Grave  with  the  World's  pain, 
Mirthless  and  tearless: 
Widowed  from  babyhood, 
Child  without  childhood, 
Stained  with  an  earthy  stain, 
Loveless  and  fearless: 

My  God  is  overhead: 

Yours  must  be  cold.  Or  dead. 

— Child  with  the  pinched  face 

Why  do  you  stare 

With  so  much  knowledge  under  your  shock 

Of  wild  matted  hair? 


14 


Gratitude 

Eternal  gratitude — a  long,  thin  word: 

When  meant,  oftenest  left  unheard : 

When  light  on  the  tongue,  light  in  the  purse  too ; 

Of  curious  metallurgy :  when  coined  true 

It  glitters  not,  is  neither  large  nor  small : 

More  worth  than  rubies  —  less,  times,  than  a  ball. 

Not  gift,  nor  willed :  yet  through  its  wide  range 

Buys  what  it  buys  exact,  and  leaves  no  change. 

Old  Gurney  had  it,  won  on  a  hot  day 

With  ale,  from  glib-voiced  Gipsy  by  the  way. 

He  held  it  lightly:  for  'twas  a  rum  start 

To  find  a  hedgeling  who  had  still  a  heart: 

So  put  it  down  for  twist  of  a  beggar's  tongue    .    .   . 

He  had  not  felt  the  heat:  how  the  dust  stung 

A  face  June-roasted :  he  saw  not  the  look 

Aslant  the  gift-mug;  how  the  hand  shook    .    .    . 

Yet  the  words  filled  his  head,  and  he  grew  merry 

And  whistled  from  the  Boar  to  Wrye-brook  ferry, 

And  chaffed  with  Ferryman  when  the  hawser  creaked, 

Or  slipping  bilge  showed  where  the  planks  leaked ; 

— Lent  hand  himself,  till  doubly  hard  the  barge 

Butted  its  nose  in  mud  of  the  farther  marge. 

When  Gurney  leapt  to  shore,  he  found — dismay! 


15 


He  had  no  tuppence — (Tuppence  was  to  pay 
To  sulky  Ferryman). — 'Naught  have  I,'  says  he, 
'  Naught  but  the  gratitude  of  Tammas  Lee 
Given  one  hour.' — Sulky  Charon  grinned: 
'Done/  said  he,  'done:  I  take  it — all  of  it,  mind/ 
"Done/  cries  Jan  Gumey.  Down  the  road  he  went, 
But  by  the  ford  left  all  his  merriment. 

This  is  the  tale  of  midday  chaffering : 
How  Charon  took,  and  Gurney  lost  the  thing: 
How  Ferryman  gave  it  for  his  youngest  daughter 
To  a  tall  lad  who  saved  her  out  of  the  water — 
( Being  old  and  mean,  had  none  of  his  own  to  give, 
So  passed  on  Tammas',  glad  to  see  her  live ) : 
How  the  young  farmer  paid  his  quarter's  rent 
With  that  one  coin,  when  all  else  was  spent, 
And  how  Squire  kept  it  for  some  goldless  debt  . 
For  aught  I  know,  it  wanders  current  yet. 

But  Tammas  was  no  angel  in  disguise : 
He  stole  Squire's  chickens — often:  he  told  lies, 
Robbed  Charon's  garden,  burnt  young  Farmer's  ricks 
And  played  the  village  many  lousy  tricks. 

No  children  sniffled,  and  no  dog  cried, 
When  full  of  oaths  and  smells,  he  died. 


16 


Vagrancy 

When  the  slow  year  creeps  hay-ward,  and  the  skies 

Are  warming  in  the  summer's  mild  surprise, 

And  the  still  breeze  disturbs  each  leafy  frond 

Like  hungry  fishes  dimpling  in  a  pond, 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  dream  at  ease 

On  sun-warmed  thyme,  not  far  from  beechen  trees. 

A  robin  flashing  in  a  rowan-tree, 

A  wanton  robin,  spills  his  melody 

As  if  he  had  such  store  of  golden  tones 

That  they  were  no  more  worth  to  him  than  stones : 

The  sunny  lizards  dream  upon  the  ledges : 

Linnets  titter  in  and  out  the  hedges, 

Or  swoop  among  the  freckled  butterflies. 

Down  to  a  beechen  hollow  winds  the  track 
And  tunnels  past  my  twilit  bivouac : 
Two  spiring  wisps  of  smoke  go  singly  up 
And  scarcely  tremble  in  the  leafy  air. 


17 


— There  are  more  shadows  in  this  loamy  cup 
Than  God  could  count:  and  oh,  but  it  is  fair: 
The  kindly  green  and  rounded  trunks,  that  meet 
Under  the  soil  with  twinings  of  their  feet 
And  in  the  sky  with  twinings  of  their  arms : 
The  yellow  stools :  the  still  ungathered  charms 
Of  berry,  woodland  herb,  and  bryony, 
And  mid-wood's  changeling  child,  Anemone. 

Quiet  as  a  grave  beneath  a  spire 

I  lie  and  watch  the  pointed  climbing  fire, 

I  lie  and  watch  the  smoky  weather-cock 

That  climbs  too  high,  and  bends  to  the  breeze's  shock, 

And  breaks,  and  dances  off  across  the  skies 

Gay  as  a  flurry  of  blue  butterflies. 

But  presently  the  evening  shadows  in, 
Heralded  by  the  night-jar's  solitary  din 
And  the  quick  bat's  squeak  among  the  trees; 
— Who  sudden  rises,  darting  across  the  air 
To  weave  her  filmy  web  in  the  Sun's  bright  hair 
That  slowly  sinks  dejected  on  his  knees  .  .  • 


18 


Now  is  he  vanished:  the  bewildered  skies 
Flame  out  a  desperate  and  last  surmise; 
Then  yield  to  Night,  their  sudden  conqueror. 

From  pole  to  pole  the  shadow  of  the  world 

Creeps  over  heaven,  all  itself  is  lit 

By  the  very  many  stars  that  wake  in  it: 

Sleep,  like  a  messenger  of  great  import, 

Lays  quiet  and  compelling  hands  athwart 

The  easy  idlenesses  of  my  mind. 

— There  is  a  breeze  above  me,  and  around: 

There  is  a  fire  before  me,  and  behind : 

But  Sleep  doth  hold  me,  and  I  hear  no  sound. 

In  the  far  West  the  clouds  are  mustering, 
Without  hurry,  noise,  or  blustering : 
And  soon  as  Body's  nightly  Sentinel 
Himself  doth  nod,  I  open  furtive  eyes  .  .  . 

With  darkling  hook  the  Farmer  of  the  Skies 
Goes  reaping  stars :  they  fllicker,  one  by  one, 
Nodding  a  little;  tumble — and  are  gone. 


19 


Storm :  to  the  Them  of  Polyphemus 

Mortal  I  stand  upon  the  lifeless  hills 

That  jut  their  cragged  bones  against  the  sky: 

I  crawl  upon  their  naked  ebony, 

And  toil  across  the  scars  of  Titan  ills 

Dealt  by  the  weaponing  of  gods  and  devils: 

I  climb  their  uppermost  deserted  levels, 

And  see  how  Heaven  glowers  his  one  eye 

Blood-red  and  black-browed  in  the  sullen  sky, 

While  all  his  race  is  livid  as  a  corpse 

And  wicked  as  a  snake's:  see  how  he  warps 

His  sultry  beam  across  the  misted  sea, 

As  if  he  grudged  its  darkling  ministry. 

He  looks  so  covetous,  I  think  he  hides 
— Jetsam  of  the  slow  ethereal  tides  — 
Some  cursed  and  battered  Sailor  of  the  Spheres: 
All  night  he  ravens  on  him  and  his  peers, 
But  with  the  day  he  straddles  monstrously 
Across  the  earth  in  churlish  shepherdry, 
A-hungered  for  his  hideous  nightly  feast. 


20 


But  storms  are  gathering  in  the  whitened  East: 
The  day  grows  darker  still,  and  suddenly 
That  lone  and  crafty  Prisoner  of  the  Sky 
Plunges  his  murky  torch  in  Heaven's  Eye: 
The  blinded,  screaming  tempest  trumpets  out 
His  windy  agonies:  Oh,  he  will  spout 
His  boiling  rains  upon  the  soggy  air 
And  heave  great  rocking  planets :  he  will  tear 
And  snatch  the  screeching  comets  by  the  hair 
To  fling  them  all  about  him  in  the  sea, 
And  blast  the  wretch's  fatal  Odyssey! 

The  great  convulsions  of  the  Deity 
Rumble  in  agony  across  the  sky: 
His  thunders  rattle  in  and  out  the  peaks: 
His  lightnings  jab  at  every  word  He  speaks: 
—  At  every  heavenly  curse  the  cloud  is  split 
And  daggered  lightnings  crackle  out  of  it. 

Like  a  steep  shower  of  snakes  the  hissing  rain 
Flickers  its  tongues  upon  the  muddied  plain, 
Writhing  and  twisting  on  the  gutted  rocks 


21 


That  tremble  at  the  heavy  thunder-shocks: 

Soon  from  the  hub  on  Heaven's  axel-tree 

The  frozen  hail  flies  spinning,  and  the  sea 

Is  lashed  beneath  me  to  a  howling  smoke 

As  if  the  frozen  fires  of  hell  had  woke 

And  cracked  their  icy  flames  in  the  face  of  Heaven. 

Withered  and  crouching  and  scarce  breathing  even, 
And  battered  as  a  gnat  upon  a  wall 
I  ding  and  gasp — climb  to  my  feet,  and  fail, 
And  crawl  at  last  beneath  a  lidded  stone, 
Careless  if  all  the  earth's  foundations  groan 
And  strain  in  the  heaving  of  this  devilry, 
Careless  at  last  whether  I  live  or  die. 

So  the  vast  /Eschylean  tragedy 

Rolls  to  its  thunderous  appointed  dose: 

With  final  mutterings  each  actor  goes: 

And  the  huge  Heavenly  tragedian 

Tears  from  his  face  the  massy  mask  and  wan, 

And  shines  resplendent  on  the  shattered  stage 

As  he  has  done  from  age  to  bewildered  age, 

Giving  the  lie  to  all  his  mimic  rage. 


22 


Tramp 
(  The  Bath  Road,  June) 

When  a  brass  sun  staggers  above  the  sky, 
When  feet  cleave  to  boots,  and  the  tongue  '$  dry, 
And  sharp  dust  goads  the  rolling  eye, 
Come  thoughts  of  wine,  and  dancing  thoughts 

of  girls : 

They  shiver  their  white  arms,  and  the  head  whirls, 
And  noon  light  is  hid  in  their  dark  curls : 
Noon  feet  stumble  and  head  swims. 
Out  shines  the  sun,  and  the  thought  dims, 
And  death,  for  blood,  runs  in  the  weak  limbs. 

To  fall  on  flints  in  the  shade  of  tall  nettles 
Gives  easy  sleep  as  a  bed  of  rose  petals, 
And  dust  drifting  from  the  highway 
As  light  a  coverlet  as  down  may. 
The  myriad  feet  of  many-sized  flies 
May  not  open  those  tired  eyes. 


23 


The  first  wind  of  night 

Twitches  the  coverlet  away  quite : 

The  first  wind  and  large  first  rain 

Flickers  the  dry  pulse  to  life  again. 

Flickers  the  lids  burning  on  the  eyes: 

Come  sudden  flashes  of  the  slipping  skies 

Hunger,  oldest  visionary, 

Hides  a  devil  in  a  tree, 

Hints  a  glory  in  the  clouds, 

Fills  the  crooked  air  with  crowds 

Of  ivory  sightless  demons  singing— 

Eyes  start:  straightens  back: 

Limbs  stagger  and  crack: 

But  brain  flies,  brain  soars 

Up,  where  the  Sky  roars 

Upon  the  back  of  cherubim : 

Brain  rockets  up  to  Him. 

Body  gives  another  twist 

To  the  slack  waist-band; 

In  agony  clenches  fist 

Till  the  nails  bite  the  hand. 

Body  floats  light  as  air, 

With  rain  in  its  sparse  hair. 


24 


Brain  returns,  and  would  tell 
The  things  he  has  seen  well: 

Body  will  not  stir  his  lips : 
Mind  and  Body  come  to  grips. 

Deadly  each  hates  the  other 
As  treacherous  blood  brother. 

No  sight,  no  sound  shows 
How  the  struggle  goes. 

I  sink  at  last  faint  in  the  wet  gutter; 

So  many  words  to  sing  that  the  tongue  cannot  utter. 


25 


Epitaph 

Jonathan  Barlow  loved  wet  skies, 

And  golden  leaves  on  a  rollick  wind  .  .  . 

The  clouds  drip  damp  on  his  crumbled  eyes, 

And  the  storm  his  roystering  dirge  hath  dinned. 

Proud  buck  rabbits  he  loved,  and  the  feel 
Of  a  finicky  nose  that  sniffed  his  hand : 

So  now  they  burrow,  and  crop  their  meal ; 
Their  fore-paws  scatter  him  up  in  sand. 

He  loved  old  bracken,  and  now  it  pushes 
Affectionate  roots  between  his  bones: 

He  runs  in  the  sap  of  the  young  spring  bushes, 
—  Basks,  when  a  June  sun  warms  the  stones. 

Jonathan  Barlow  loved  his  Connie 

Better  than  beasts,  or  trees,  or  rain  .  •  , 

But  her  ears  are  shut  to  her  Golden-Johnnie, 
And  his  tap,  tap,  tap,  at  her  window-pane. 


26 


Glaucopi* 

John  Fane  Dingle 

By  Rumney  Brook 
Shot  a  crop-eared  owl, 

For  pigeon  mistook : 

Caught  her  by  the  lax  wing. 

—She,  as  she  dies, 
Thrills  his  warm  soul  through 
With  her  deep  eyes. 

Corpse-eyes  are  eerie: 

Tiger-eyes  fierce: 
John  Fane  Dingle  found 

Owl-eyes  worse. 

Owl-eyes  on  night-clouds, 

Constant  as  Fate: 
Owl-eyes  in  baby's  face: 

On  dish  and  plate: 

Owl-eyes,  without  sound. 

—  Pale  of  hue 
John  died  of  no  complaint, 

With  owl-eyes  too. 


27 


Poets,  Painters,  Puddings 

Poets,  painters,  and  puddings ;  these  three 
Make  up  the  World  as  it  ought  to  be. 

Poets  make  faces 

And  sudden  grimaces: 

They  twit  you,  and  spit  you 

On  words:  then  admit  you 

To  heaven  or  hell 

By  the  tales  that  they  tell. 

Painters  are  gay 
As  young  rabbits  in  May: 
They  buy  jolly  mugs, 
Bowls,  pictures,  and  jugs: 
The  things  round  their  necks 
Are  lively  with  checks, 
(For  they  like  something  red 
As  a  frame  for  the  head): 
Or  they  '11  curse  you  with  oaths, 
That  tear  holes  in  your  clothes. 
(With  nothing  to  mend  them 
You'd  best  not  offend  them). 


28 


Puddings  should  be 
Full  of  currants,  for  me : 
Boiled  in  a  pail, 
Tied  in  the  tail 
Of  an  old  bleached  shirt : 
So  hot  that  they  hurt, 
So  huge  that  they  last 
From  the  dim,  distant  past 
Until  the  crack  o'  doom 
Lift  the  roof  off  the  room. 

Poets,  painters,  and  puddings ;  these  three 
Crown  the  day  as  it  crowned  should  be. 


29 


Isaac  Ball 

Painting  pictures 

Worth  nothing  at  all 
In  a  dark  cellar 

Sits  Isaac  Ball. 

Cobwebs  on  his  butter, 

Herrings  in  bed: 
Stout  matted  in  the  hair 

Of  his  poor  cracked  head. 

There  he  paints  Men's  Thoughts 

— Or  so  says  he: 
For  in  that  cellar 

It 's  too  dark  to  see. 

Iliac  knew  great  men, 

Poets  and  peers: 
Treated  crown-princes 

To  stouts  and  beers; 


30 


Some  still  visit  him ; 

Pretend  to  buy 
His  unpainted  pictures — 

The  Lord  knows  why. 

His  grey  beard  is  woolly, 
Eyes  brown  and  wild: 

Sticky  things  in  his  pocket 
For  anybody's  child. 

Someday  he  '11  win  fame, 
— So  Isaac  boasts, 

Lecturing  half  the  night 
To  long-legged  ghosts. 

Isaac  was  young  once: 

At  sixty-five 
Still  seduces  more  girls 

Than  any  man  alive. 


31 


Dirge 

To  those  under  smoke-blackened  tiles,  and 

cavernous  echoing  arches, 
In  tortuous  hid  courts,  where  the  roar  never 
Of  deep  cobbled  streets  wherein  dray  upon  dray 

ever  marches, 
The  sky  is  a  broken  lid,  a  litter  of  smashed 

yellow  pieces. 

To  those  under  mouldering  roofs,  where  life  to  an 

hour  is  crowded, 

Life,  to  a  span  of  the  floor,  to  an  inch  of  the  light, 
And  night  is  all  fevrous-hot,  a  time  to  be  bawded 

and  rowdied, 
Day  is  a  time  of  grinding,  that  looks  for  rest 

to  the  night. 

Those  who  would  live,  do  it  quickly,  with 

quick  tears,  sudden  laughter, 
Quick  oaths — terse  blasphemous  thoughts 

about  God  the  Creator: 
Those  who  would  die,  do  it  quickly,  with  noose 

from  the  rafter, 
Or  the  black  shadowy  eddies  of  Thames,  the 

hurry-hater. 


32 


Life  is  the  Master,  the  keen  and  grim  destroyer 

of  beauty : 
Death  is  a  quiet  and  deep  reliever,  where  soul 

upon  soul 
And  wizened  and  thwarted  body  on  body  are 

loosed  from  their  duty 
Of  living,  and  sink  in  a  bottomless,  edgeless 

impalpable  hole. 

Dead,  they  can  see  far  above  them,  as  if  from 

the  depth  of  a  pit, 
Black  on  the  glare  small  figures  that  twist  and 

are  shrivelled  in  it. 


33 


The  Singing  Furies 

The  yellow  sky  grows  vivid  as  the  sun : 
The  sea  glittering,  and  the  hills  dun. 

The  stones  quiver.  Twenty  pounds  of  lead 
Fold  upon  fold,  the  air  laps  my  head. 

Both  eyes  scorch:  tongue  stiff  and  bitter: 
Flies  buzz,  but  no  birds  twitter: 
Slow  bullocks  stand  with  stinging  feet, 
And  naked  fishes  scarcely  stir  for  heat. 

White  as  smoke, 

As  jetted  steam,  dead  clouds  awoke 
And  quivered  on  the  Western  rim. 
Then  the  singing  started :  dim 
And  sibilant  as  rime-stiff  reeds 
That  whistle  as  the  wind  leads. 
The  North  answered,  low  and  dear; 
The  South  whispered  hard  and  sere, 
And  thunder  muffled  up  like  drums 
Beat,  whence  the  East  wind  comes. 
The  heavy  sky  that  could  not  weep 
Is  loosened:  rain  falls  steep: 


34 


And  thirty  singing  furies  fide 

To  split  the  sky  from  side  to  side. 

They  sing,  and  lash  the  wet-flanked  wind : 

Sing,  from  Col  to  Hafod  Mynd 

And  fling  their  voices  half  a  score 

Of  miles  along  the  mounded  shore : 

Whip  loud  music  from  a  tree, 

And  roll  their  paean  out  to  sea 

Where  crowded  breakers  fling  and  leap, 

And  strange  things  throb  five  fathoms  deep. 

The  sudden  tempest  roared  and  died: 
The  singing  furies  muted  ride 
Down  wet  and  slippery  roads  to  hell : 
And,  silent  in  their  captors'  train 
Two  fishers,  storm-caught  on  the  main ; 
A  shepherd,  battered  with  his  flocks ; 
A  pit-boy  tumbled  from  the  rocks; 
A  dozen  back-broke  gulls,  and  hosts 
Of  shadowy,  small,  pathetic  ghosts, 
—Of  mice  and  leverets  caught  by  flood; 
Their  beauty  shrouded  in  cold  mud. 


35 


The  Ruin 

Gone  are  the  coloured  princes,  gone  echo,  gone 

laughter: 
Drips  the  blank  roof:  and  the  moss  creeps  after. 

Dead  is  the  crumbled  chimney:  all  mellowed  to  rotting 
The  wall-tints,  and  the  floor-tints,  from  the  spotting 
Of  the  rain,  from  the  wind  and  slow  appetite 
Of  patient  mould :  and  of  the  worms  that  bite 
At  beauty  all  their  innumerable  lives. 

— But  the  sudden  nip  of  knives, 

The  lady  aching  for  her  stiffening  lord, 

The  passionate-fearful  bride 

And  beaded  pallor  damped  to  the  torment-board, 

— Leave  they  no  ghosts,  no  memories  by  the  stain? 

No  sheeted  glimmer  treading  floorless  ways? 

No  haunting  melody  of  lovers'  airs, 

Nor  stealthy  chill  upon  the  noon  of  days? 


36 


No:  for  the  dead  and  senseless  walls  have  long 

forgotten 
What  passionate  hearts  beneath  the  grass  lie  rotten. 

Only  from  roofs  and  chimneys  pleasantly  sliding 
Tumbles  the  rain  in  the  early  hours: 
Patters  its  thousand  feet  on  the  flowers, 
Cools  its  small  grey  feet  in  the  grasses. 


37 


Judy 

Sand  hot  to  haunches: 
Sun  beating  eyes  down, 

Yet  they  peer  under  lashes 
At  the  hill's  crown: 

See  how  the  hill  slants 
Up  the  sky  half  way; 

Over  the  top  tall  clouds 
Poke,  gold  and  grey. 

Down :  see  a  green  field 
Tipped  on  its  short  edge, 

Its  upper  rim  straggled  round 
By  a  black  hedge. 

Grass  bright  as  new  brass: 

Uneven  dark  gone 
Stuck  to  its  own  shadow, 

Like  Judy  that  black  bont. 


Birds  clatter  numberless, 
And  the  breeze  tells 

That  bean-flower  somewhere 
Has  ousted  the  blue-bells: 

Birds  clatter  numberless: 
In  the  muffled  wood 

Big  feet  move  slowly: 
Mean  no  good. 


39 


Winter 

Snow  wind-whipt  to  ice 

Under  a  hard  sun: 
Scream-runnels  curdled  hoar 

Crackle,  cannot  run. 

Robin  stark  dead  on  twig, 
Song  stiffened  in  it : 

Fluffed  feathers  may  not  warm 
Bone-thin  linnet: 


Big-eyed  rabbit,  lost, 
Scrabbles  the  snow, 

Searching  for  long-dead 
With  frost-bit  toe: 


Mad-tired  on  the  road 

Old  Kelly  goes; 
Through  crookt  fingers  snuffs  the  air 

Knife-cold  in  his  nose. 

Hunger-weak,  snow-dazzled, 

Old  Thomas  Kelly 
Thrusts  his  bit  hands,  for  warmth 

Twixt  waistcoat  and  belly. 


40 


The  Moonlit  Journey 

Unguarded  stands  the  shuttered  sky: 
The  creeping  Thief  of  Night 
With  tool  and  hook  begins  to  ply 
His  careful  picking:  he  would  pry 
And  filch  her  coffered  light. 
The  soundless  tapping  of  his  bar 
Pricks  out  each  sudden  star. 

The  soundless  tapping  of  his  bar 
Lets  out  the  wealthy  Moon: 
The  frozen  Bright  goes  arching  far 
On  buttresses  of  lucid  spar 
And  lights  the  road  to  Cloun; 
And  all  the  pouring  of  her  riches 
Floats  on  the  silent  ditches. 

The  crescent  road  is  ivory 

Between  the  silver  water: 

But  squat  and  black  and  creeping,  see, 

Blank  as  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 

Old  Robert  and  his  daughter 

Toil  on :  and  fearful,  each  descries 

Moon-gleams  in  other's  eyes. 


41 


A  Song  oftht  Walking  Road 

The  World  is  all  orange-round : 

The  sea  smells  salt  between: 

The  strong  hills  climb  on  their  own  backs, 

Coloured  and  damascene, 

Cloud-flecked  and  sunny-green; 

Knotted  and  straining  up, 

Up,  with  still  hands  and  cold: 

Grip  at  the  slipping  sky, 

Yet  cannot  hold : 

Round  twists  old  Earth,  and  round  .  .  . 

Stillness  not  yet  found. 

Plains  like  a  flat  dish,  too. 
Shudder  and  spin : 
Roads  in  a  pattern  crawl 
Scratched  with  a  pin 
Across  the  fields'  dim  shagreen : 
—  Dusty  their  load: 
But  over  the  craggy  hills 
Wanders  the  Walking  Road! 


42 


Broad  as  the  hill 's  broad, 
Rough  as  the  world  's  rough,  too : 
Long  as  the  Age  is  long, 
Ancient  and  true, 
Swinging,  and  broad,  and  long : 
—Craggy,  strong. 

Gods  sit  like  milestones 

On  the  edge  of  the  Road,  by  the  Moonls  sill ; 

Man  has  feet,  feet  that  swing,  pound  the  high  hill 

Above  and  above,  until 

He  stumble  and  widely  spill 

His  dusty  bones. 

Round  twists  old  Earth,  and  round  .  .  . 
Stillness  not  yet  found. 


43 


The  Sermon 
(Vales,  1920) 

Like  gripe  stick 

Still  I  sit: 

Eyes  fixed  on  far  small  eyes, 

Full  of  it: 

On  the  old,  broad  race, 

The  hung  chin ; 

Heavy  arms,  surplice 

Worn  through  and  worn  thin. 

Probe  I  the  hid  mind 

Under  the  gross  flesh: 

Clutch  at  poetic  words, 

Follow  their  mesh 

Scarce  heaving  breath. 

Clutch,  marvel,  wonder, 

Till  the  words  end. 

Stilled  is  the  muttered  thunder: 
The  hard,  few  people  wake, 
Gather  their  books  and  go  ... 
— Whether  their  hearts  could  break 
How  can  I  know? 


44 


The  Rolling  Saint 

Under  the  crags  of  Teiriwch, 

The  door-sills  of  the  Sun, 

Where  God  has  left  the  bony  earth 

Just  as  it  was  begun; 

Where  clouds  sail  past  like  argosies 

Breasting  the  crested  hills 

With  mainsail  and  foretopsail 

That  the  thin  breeze  fills; 

With  ballast  of  round  thunder, 

And  anchored  with  the  rain ; 

With  a  long  shadow  sounding 

The  deep,  far  plain : 

Where  rocks  are  broken  playthings 

By  petulant  gods  hurled, 

And  Heaven  sits  a-straddle 

The  roof-ridge  of  the  World : 

— Under  the  crags  of  Teiriwch 

Is  a  round  pile  of  stones, 

Large  stones,  small  stones, 

— White  as  old  bones; 

Some  from  high  places 

Or  from  the  lake's  shore; 


45 


And  every  man  that  passes 
Adds  one  more — 
The  years  it  has  been  growing 
Verge  on  t  hundred  score. 

For  in  the  Cave  of  Teiriwch 

That  scarce  holds  a  sheep, 

Where  plovers  and  rock-conies 

And  wild  things  sleep, 

A  woman  lived  for  ninety  years 

On  bilberries  and  moss 

And  lizards  and  small  creeping  things, 

And  carved  herself  a  cross: 

But  wild  hill  robbers 

Found  the  ancient  saint 

And  dragged  her  to  the  sunlight, 

Making  no  complaint. 

Too  old  was  she  for  weeping, 

Too  shrivelled  and  too  dry: 

She  crouched  and  mumle-mumlcd 

And  mumled  to  the  sky. 

No  breath  had  she  for  wailing, 

Her  cheeks  were  paper-thin : 

She  was,  for  all  her  holiness, 

As  ugly  as  sin. 


They  cramped  her  in  a  barrel 

— All  but  her  bobbing  head 

— And  rolled  her  down  from  Teiriwch 

Until  she  was  dead : 

They  took  her  out  and  buried  her 

— Just  broken  bits  of  bone 

And  rags  and  skin,  and  over  her 

Set  one  small  stone: 

But  if  you  pass  her  sepulchre 

And  add  not  one  thereto 

The  ghost  of  that  old  murdered  Saint 

Will  roll  in  front  of  you 

The  whole  night  through. 

The  clouds  sail  past  in  argosies 

And  cold  drips  the  rain : 

The  whole  world  is  far  and  high 

Above  the  tilted  plain. 

The  silent  mists  float  eerily, 

And  I  am  here  alone: 

Dare  I  pass  the  place  by 
And  cast  not  a  stone? 


47 


Weald 

Still  is  the  leaden  night: 

The  film-eyed  moon 

Spills  hardly  any  light, 

But  nods  to  sleep — And  soon 

Through  five  broad  parishes  there  is  no  sound 

But  the  far  melancholy  wooing 

Of  evil-minded  cats;  and  the  late  shoeing 

Of  some  unlucky  filly  by  the  ford. 

For  twenty  miles  abroad  there  is  no  moving, 
But  for  the  uncomfortable  hooving 
Of  midnight  cows  a-row  in  Parson's  Lag : 
-That;  and  the  slow  twist  of  water  round  a  snag. 

The  silver  mist  that  slumbers  in  the  hollow 
Dreams  of  a  breeze,  and  turns  upon  its  side, 
So  sleep  uneasy:  but  no  breezes  follow, 
Only  the  moon  blinks  slowly  thrice,  wan-eyed. 

-I  think  this  is  the  most  unhappy  night 
Since  hot-cheeked  Hecuba  wept  in  the  dawn. 

-There  never  was  a  more  unhappy  night, 
Not  that  when  Hero's  lamp  proved  unavailing, 
Nor  that  when  Bethlehem  was  filled  with  wailing  . 


.  .  .  There  is  no  reason  for  unhappiness, 
Save  that  the  saddened  stars  have  hid  their  faces, 
And  that  dun  clouds  usurp  their  brilliant  places, 
And  that  the  wind  lacks  even  strength  to  sigh. 

And  yet,  as  if  outraged  by  some  long  tune 

A  dog  cries  dolefully,  green-eyed  in  the  moon  .  . 


49 


The  Jumping-Bean 

(A  curious  bean,  with  a  small  maggot  in  it,  who 

comes  to  life  and  tumbles  bis  dwelling  of 

the  Simulut  of -warmth) 

Sun  in  a  warm  streak 

Striping  the  plush: 
Ouch  breath,  hold  finger  tight : 

All  delight  hush. 

Dance,  small  grey  thing 
Sleek  in  the  warm  sun : 

Roll  around,  to  this,  to  that, 
—  Rare  wormy  fun! 

Hot  sun  applauds  thee: 

Warm  fingers  press 
To  wake  the  small  life  within 

Thy  rotund  dress. 


50 


Alack !  Have  years  in  cupboard, 

In  chill  and  dark, 
Stifled  thy  discontent? 

Snufft  thy  spark? 

Liest  thou  stark,  stiff, 

There  in  thy  bed? 
Weep  then  a  dirge  for  him: 

Poor  Bean  's  dead! 


51 


Old  Cat  Care  outside  the  Cottage 
(1918) 

Green-eyed  Care 

May  prowl  and  glare 

And  poke  his  snub,  be-whiskered  nose: 

But  Door  fits  tight 

Against  the  Night: 

Through  criss-cross  cracks  no  evil  goes. 

Window  is  small : 

No  room  at  all 

For  Worry  and  Money,  his  shoulder-bones 

Chimney  is  wide, 

But  Smoke's  inside 

And  happy  Smoke  would  smother  his 

Be-whiskered  Care 
May  prowl  out  there: 
But  I  never  heard 
He  caught  the  Blue  Bird! 


52 


Cottager  is  given  the  Bird 
(1921) 

Sidelong  the  Bird  ran, 

Hard-eyed  on  the  turned  mould: 
Was  door — window — wide? 

— Then  Heart  grew  kettle-cold. 

Might  no  wind-suckt  curtain 
Dim  that  travelling  Eye? 

Could  Door's  thick  benediction 
Deafen:  if  he  should  cry? 

Sidelong  the  Bird  crept 

Into  the  stark  door: 
His  yellow,  lidless  eye! 

Foot  chill  to  the  stone  floor! 

.  .  .  Then  Smoke,  that  slender  baby, 
To  Hearth's  white  Niobe-breast 

Sank  trembling — dead.  Oh  Bird, 
Bird,  spare  the  rest ! 


53 


He  has  bidden  bats  to  flit 
In  Window's  wide  mouth: 

Starlings  to  tumble,  and  mock 
Poor  Pot's  old  rusty  drouth : 

And  a  wet  canker,  nip 

Those  round-breasted  stones 

That  I  hugged  to  strong  walls 

With  the  love  of  my  strained  bones. 

He  bad  lank  Spider  run, 

Grow  busy,  web  me  out 
With  dusty  trespass  stretcht 

From  mantel  to  kettle-spout. 

Door,  Window,  Rafter,  Chimney, 

Grow  silent,  die: 
All  are  dead:  all  moulder: 

Sole  banished  mourner  I. 

See  how  the  Past  rustles 

Stirring  to  life  again  .  .  . 
Three  whole  yean  left  I  lockt 

Behind  that  window-pane. 


54 


A  Man 

He  is  a  man  in  love  with  gran, 

He  shivers  at  a  tree: 

Thrill  of  wing  in  briar-bushes 

Wildly  at  his  heart  pushes 

Like  the  first,  faint  hint 

A  lover  is  let  see. 

If  he  had  known  a  wordless  song 
As  a  bird  he  would  sing; 
Who  took  delight  in  slim  rabbits, 
Watched  their  delicate  habits, 
—Waited,  by  the  briar-bush, 
That  flutter  of  wooing. 

Why  did  he  break  that  small  -wing? 
The  sun  looks  hollowly: 
Mocking 's  where  the  water  goes ; 
The  breeze  bitter  in  his  nose: 
Mocking  eyes  wide  burning 
— Lost,  lost  is  he! 


55 


Moon-Struck 

Cold  shone  the  moon,  with  noise 
The  night  went  by. 
Trees  uttered  things  of  woe: 
Bent  grass  dared  not  grow: 

Ah  desperate  man  with  haggard  eyes 

And  hands  that  fence  away  the  skies 

On  rock  and  briar  stumbling, 

Is  it  fear  of  the  storm's  rumbling, 

Of  the  hissing  cold  rain, 

Or  lightning's  tragic  pain 

Drives  you  so  madly? 

See,  see  the  patient  moon; 

How  she  her  course  keeps 

Through  cloudy  shallows  and  across  black  deeps, 

Now  gone,  now  shines  soon : 

Where's  cause  for  fear? 

*  I  shudder  and  shudder 

At  her  bright  light : 

I  fear,  I  fear, 

That  she  her  fixt  course  follows 

So  still  and  white 


56 


Through  deeps  and  shallows 
With  never  a  tremor: 
Naught  shall  disturb  her. 
I  fear,  I  fear 
What  they  may  be 
That  secretly  bind  her: 
What  hand  holds  the  reins 
Of  those  sightless  forces 
That  govern  her  courses. 
Is  it  Setebos 

Who  deals  in  her  command? 
Or  that  unseen  Night-Comer 
With  tender  curst  hand? 
-I  shudder,  and  shudder/ 

Poor  storm-wisp,  wander! 
Wind  shall  not  hurt  thee, 
Rain  not  appal  thee, 
Lightning  not  blast  thee; 
Thou  art  worn  so  frail 
Only  the  moonlight  pale 
To  an  ash  shall  burn  thee, 
To  an  invisible  Pain. 


57 


^Enigma 

How  can  I  tell  it? 

I  saw  a  thing 
That  I  did  not  find  strange 

In  my  visioning. 

A  flawless  tall  mirror, 
Glass  dim  and  green ; 

And  a  tall,  dim  figure 
There  was  between: 

Pale,  so  pale  her  face 
As  veils  of  thin  water; 

And  her  eyes  water-pale, 
And  the  moonlight  on  her; 

And  she  was  dying,  dying; 

She  combed  her  long  hair, 
And  the  crimson  blood  ran 

In  the  fine  gold  there. 

She  was  dying,  dying  .  .  . 

And  in  her  perfect  eye 
No  terror  lurked;  nor  pity 

That  she  should  so  die. 


58 


Lamtnt  for  Gaza 

You  who  listen,  pity 

Gaza,  this  poor  city; 

For  now  the  roof  rocks, 

And  the  blind  god's  hands 

Grope  at  the  pillars  where  he  stands 

While  Gaza  mocks, 

While  Gaza  mocks. 


59 


The  Image 

Dim  the  light  in  your  faces:  be  passionless  in 

the  room. 
Snuffed  are  the  tapers,  and  bitterly  hang  on  the 

flowerless  air: 
See:  and  this  is  the  Image  of  her  they  will  lay 

in  the  tomb, 
Gear,  and  waxen,  and  cooled  in  the  mass  of 

her  hair. 

Quiet  the  tears  in  your  voices:  feel  lightly, 

finger,  for  finger 
In  love:  then  see  how  like  is  the  Image,  but 

lifelessly  fashioned 
And  sighdess,  calm,  unloving  ...  Oh  who  is 

the  Artist?  Oh  linger 
And  ponder  whither  has  flitted  his  Sitter 

Impassioned. 


60 


Pelo  d*  Se 

If  I  were  stone  dead  and  buried  under, 
Is  there  a  part  of  me  would  still  wander, 
Shiver,  mourn,  and  cry  Alack, 
With  no  body  to  its  back? 

When  brain  grew  mealy,  turned  to  dust, 
Would  lissom  Mind,  too,  suffer  rust? 
Immortal  Soul  grow  imbecile, 
Having  no  brain  to  think  and  feel? 

—Or  grant  it  be  as  priests  say, 
And  growth  come  on  my  death-day: 
Suppose  Growth  came:  would  Certainty? 
Or  would  Mind  still  a  quester  be, 

Frame  deeper  mysteries,  not  find  them  out, 
And  wander  in  a  larger  Doubt? 
—Alas,  if  to  Mind's  petty  stir 
Death  prove  so  poor  a  silencer: 


61 


Though  veins  when  emptied  a  few  hours 
Of  this  hot  blood,  might  suckle  flowers : 
From  Spiritual  flames  that  scorch  mi 
Never,  never  were  I  free/ 

Then  back,  Death!  Till  I  call  thee 
Hast  come  too  soon ! 
.  .  .  Thou  siOy  worm,  gnaw  not 
Yet  thine  intricate 


62 


The  Birds-neSkr 

A  Memorial,  to  an  Unfortunate  Young  Man,  Expelled 
from  hit  University  for  a  Daring  Neologism 

Critic,  chat  hoary  Gull,  in  air 
Whistles,  whistles  shrilly : 

Climbing  Youth,  beware 
Murder  and  mockery ! 

That  wheeling,  hoary  gull 
Bats  on  his  thin  skull, 
Claws  at  his  steady  eyes, 
Whinnies  and  cries: 
Youth  flings  the  gibe  back. 
Hundreds  of  wings  clack, 
Bright  eyes  encircle,  search 
For  foothold's  fatal  lurch. 
'See  now  he  shifts  his  grip: 
Loosen  each  finger-tip! 
Whew,  brothers,  shall  he  slip?' 
Crack-tendoned,  answers  Youth 
'  I  seek  for  Eggs  of  Truth.' 


63 


daws  clutch  his  hair, 
Beaks  prick  his  eyes — 
'  Whistle,  Detyair,  Defyair! 
With  ancient  quills  prise 
Every  hand's — foot's — hold, 
Wedged  in  the  rock's  fold! 
Batter  and  scream,  bewilder 
This  impious  babel-buil  .  .  . 

whew! 
Down  he  is  rocketing  falling  twisting.' 

For  days  and  nights 
Time's  curly  breakers 
Winnow  him,  wash  him  .  .  . 
What  is  that  stirs? 
What  wing  from  the  heights 
Slants  to  that  murdered  limb? 

Gull's  peering  eye  hath  spotted 
Something  the  sea  has  rotted. 
Secretly  to  the  feast 
Dives  big  gull,  less,  and  least ; 
For  Age  never  dies : 


Age  shall  pick  out  his  eyes, 

Taste  them  with  critick  zest, 

— Age  knows  the  Best! 

— Age  shall  build  his  lair 

Out  of  his  hair: 

Gulp  his  small  splintered  bones 

To  his  gizzard,  for  stones: 

Feed  on  his  words 

All  his  young  woolly  birds. 

Say  not  he  died  in  vain ! 
All  that  he  cried  in  pain 
Ear-cocked  Age  hearkens  to 
Someday.  Declares  it  true 
Someday. 

What  though  he  fell?  The  jest 
Feathers  old  Critic's  nest. 


65 


By  arrangement  with  the  author,  and  with  the 
gracious  permission  of  his  publishers,  The  Golden 
Cockerel  Press,  Walt  ham  Saint  Lawrence,  Berkshire, 
England,  this  edition  of  Gipsy-Night  and  Other  Poems 
becomes  the  third  publication  issued  by  The  Private 
Press  of  Will  Ransom:  Maker  of  Books,  14  WeS  Wash- 
ington Street,  Chicago,  U.  S.  A. 

Composition  and  presswork  by  Witt  Ransom, 
assisted  by  Edmond  A.  Hunt;  binding  by  Anthony 
Faifer.  Printing  finished  September  30tb,  1922. 


